


Foie Gras

by jelenedra



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Cannibalism, Case Notes, Character Study, Emotional Manipulation, Hannibal POV, Mind Games, Murder, Therapy, Transcripts, off-screen violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-06
Updated: 2013-05-08
Packaged: 2017-12-10 13:32:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 4,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/786594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jelenedra/pseuds/jelenedra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The FBI is not Hannibal's only client.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [apiphile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/apiphile/gifts).



The blade of the scalpel slid through the liver with almost no resistance, lifting each vein away clearly. When he was finished, he examined it with his hands, the pressure of his fingers revealing hidden capillaries. These were cut out too. 

With the veins and fat gone, the liver had been pared down to two kilograms exactly. He smoothed the flesh over the imperfections left by this treatment. He lifted the entire thing carefully, using both hands, and laid it down in a waiting dish. It had been a gift from one of his clients some years ago; Wedgewood, manufactured in 1945, showing a scene of the Parthenon in the classical Etruria blue and white. 

A Meissen pitcher of milk waited in his refrigerator. The cream had risen to the top while he cleaned the liver; he stirred it briskly with a clean glass rod, then, very slowly, poured it into the tray. The milk had come direct from the Holstein to his kitchen, thick and smooth and creamy white. As soon as it covered the liver, he stopped, and returned the pitcher to the fridge. He covered the dish with a glass lid and set it aside.


	2. Chapter 2

_Karen is a 27 year old female who has never married, currently living with (in a house owned by) her mother. Karen recently experienced several episodes characterised by tachycardia, diaphoresis, and hyperventilation, for which she sought treatment at Sentara Medical Centre. In the absence of a physiological cause, Sentara referred her on for psychiatric evaluation._

-

HL: Are you often afraid?

KH: [coughs] I wouldn't say so. Maybe. No.

HL: Can you recall for me the circumstances of this disproportionate fear?

KH: I suppose it started on Thursday. I'd just gotten my hair done. Mother didn't like it.

HL: How did she communicate this dislike?

KH: She threw the kettle at my head.

HL: Under those circumstances I would rescind my use of 'disproportionate'. Has she ever expressed her disapproval with acts of this nature before?

KH: I suppose. This was the first time she'd really hurt me though. You can still see the burns.

HL: What form did her previous acts take?

KH: Oh, gosh... well, when I thought I might go to university in Massachusetts, she hit me with the vacuum. And when I quit my job she burned half my clothes.

HL: And in what way did you provoke this aggression?

KH: I... [coughs] I suppose I was ungrateful.

HL: How did this ingratitude manifest?

KH: I... well, so, I've been supporting her since my brother left. I was going to move away, to go to school. And I got offered a job in LA. And I would have left her behind. In retrospect she was right, of course. I can't just abandon her.

HL: So you turned down the job?

KH: And a scholarship. I had to.

HL: Who defined this as ingratitude, you or your mother?

KH: Well she brought it up first, but she was right. I shouldn't have thought of leaving.

HL: Have there been many other instances where you thought of bettering your situation and were persuaded to remain with your mother?

KH: Not many. [coughs] She makes her feelings very clear.

-

_Having discussed the context of the episodes with Karen, it has become clear that she is suffering from panic attacks, and has recurring intrusive thoughts about the possibility of future panic attacks. It is my opinion that she meets criteria for an Axis I diagnosis of Panic Disorder (without agoraphobia)._

_These attacks seem to have been precipitated by an incident in which Karen's mother threw a kettle of boiling water at Karen's head. Karen suffered minor burns as a result and experienced her first panic attack within twelve hours of the incident. Karen describes a long-term pattern of emotional and physical abuse from her mother, beginning some years ago when her brother moved out of the family home (their father is deceased). Karen seems reluctant to acknowledge this relationship as abusive._

-  
KH: I did think about calling them up and asking about the job, but I can't stop thinking about, like, what if I have an episode in the middle of an interview? I'd die.

HL: And what would your mother say?

KH: Uh... 'I told you so', probably. Uh, 'I told you this would happen', 'you never listen', 'why did you bother'...

HL: Is your brother successful?

KH: You know I'm honestly not sure? He and mother had such a fight when he left, he said he wouldn't contact us until she was dead. I suppose he must be doing well enough or he would have come back to beg by now.

HL: What do you think your mother would say if she knew he was a success?

KH: ...I don't know. Probably that he owes it to her to come back and support her. [cough]

HL: How does one go about securing your mother's approval?

KH: Just support her. Financially, I mean. And don't argue with her. I suppose she'd be happier if I married someone wealthy, so I could take care of her full time.

HL: What is her rationale for demanding this?

KH: She—since our dad died, she's been by herself except for us. And when my brother left it was just me. She's getting on, she can't be alone.

HL: In most cultures, the adult is expected to return to their parents after they have made a contribution to the world. How old is your mother?

KH: She's fifty-three, but she's—she's my mother, Doctor Lecter, I can't just leave her, can I?

HL: I have colleagues still practising in their mid-sixties and seventies, Karen; I can assure you that your mother does not need a live-in nurse and that if she does it will be far more satisfying for all involved if you pay for one with the wages of your success. Your mother does not want you to leave because she knows you don't love her.

KH: That's not true—

HL: She is afraid that if you see anything of a world in which she does not control you, you will enjoy it, and she will have no one to feel superior to.

-

_Current research suggests cognitive behavioural therapy as the most effective treatment for panic disorder, especially in combination with anxiolytic medication. In this case, however, the roots of the problem lie in Karen's family environment, and it is likely that the treatment will not progress until she finds resolution there. In particular, Karen's relationship with her mother has become unhealthy, and Karen will likely require ongoing support to create and enforce boundaries or terminate the relationship._

-

KH: If you're right—I'm not saying you are—if you're right... what, what do I do?

HL: It is vital that you break away from your mother. She has already demonstrated violent behaviour towards you, and judging by how well she has manipulated you into accepting this as your due, I do not think it would be profitable for you to seek police help. For one thing, they would ask why you do not simply leave.

KH: Because she's my mother! She—[coughs]

HL: You are a legal and emancipated adult. The police would want to know why you allow it.

KH: I don't—I can’t—

HL: You remain in a position you could easily extricate yourself from, the police will say, and yet you claim you are subject to violence and that it is causing you to panic. Your mother holds you back because you allow her to hold you back, Karen. It is high time you severed the umbilical cord.

KH: You told me, you said it was normal to be afraid, you said she was abusive and now you’re trying to turn it around on me?

HL: It was and she is, but the only person who can do something to change this situation is you, Karen. If you cannot cut yourself free of your mother's influence you stand no chance of recovering from your panic attacks.

KH: [lengthy period of hyperventilation]

HL: Breathe, Karen. Your discomfort is caused by the unfamiliarity of the notion of your own agency. Unfamiliar sensations, for example the possibility that you may possess the power to free yourself, after having believed that you are powerless for so long, can often lead to fear. Fear is a valuable emotional response, but it is not a factor which should be allowed to drive your decision-making process. Fear is what rules your mother.

KH: [breathing slows]

HL: It does not have to rule you.


	3. Chapter 3

He gathered the scalpel and small paring knife he had used for preparation, setting them on the sink beside the linoleum knife he had used for the extraction. Each was flecked with blood or flesh or both, tiny ruby slivers under the warm lights. The steel tap was cold at first but warmed under his palm. He had a precise knowledge of the change in temperature even a small adjustment would bring. Now he set it to thirty-eight degrees centigrade. When he slid his hands under the water it was as hot as arterial spray.

He ran each knife under the spray in turn, cleaning them with short, soft strokes, trusting in the pads of his fingers to show him any lingering stain or imperfection. When each knife gleamed silver, he set them aside and reached for the soap. The particular bar, he was fairly sure, was all that remained of a young man who had been foul in life and beautifully tender in death.

He set the bar aside to clean his hands, smoothing the thick, creamy lather over his palms, between his fingers, over his knuckles. He caressed the insides of his wrists, then the backs of his hands. The lather was just a few shades off white, now speckled here and there with traces of pink and brown. He slipped his hands under the water spray again, sliding each palm over the back of the opposite hand. He interlaced his fingers and drew them slowly apart. The soap caught briefly around his fingernails and in the hair on the back of his wrists. Soon enough the water swept it away.


	4. Chapter 4

_Paul states that he referred himself to my office after being informed by a woman he is pursuing that he needed therapy. Paul appeared to believe that coming for a few sessions would convince her of his genuine affections. He became irate while discussing the fee structure, but has agreed to it._

_While Paul does not appear to see any faults in his behaviour, he has several narcissistic traits, including the inability to empathise, a belief that he is somehow special and that people around him do not appreciate this specialness, and a lack of remorse for his actions._

-

HL: While I would usually suggest conducting these interviews in whatever manner makes you the most comfortable, I would like to request that for this you hold this hand mirror and observe your own reflection both while replying to me and while I speak to you.

PB: I can't believe I'm actually paying for this. Fine.

HL: In our last session we were discussing the failure of your sympathetic listening skills to acquire you vaginal access.

PB: I know, right? I've been her friend, I've been her confidante, and she totally friendzoned me!

HL: I'm not familiar with the term.

PB: You know, when a girl tells you you're just friends? She's basically treating me like a girl.

HL: So you feel emasculated?

PB: I guess, yeah. It's like she doesn't even appreciate all the work I've put in to being her friend.

HL: So you don't find the friendship itself enjoyable?

PB: I wouldn't have tried to make friends with her if I'd known she was so frigid.

HL: The friendship itself is a means to a sexual relationship and has no other value?

PB: Well like I said, why would I be friends with her otherwise?

HL: So in your eyes, she has reneged on a bargain in which you pay her in sympathy for her sexual favours, she has broken the deal.

PB: Yes! Exactly! God, how come she can't figure this out?

HL: Therefore this feels like a betrayal?

PB: Yes. God, I don't know why I'm even doing this when she's been such a bitch.

HL: Then you are angry?

PB: Shit yes.

HL: Why do you think she betrayed you in favour of this other man, this ... Roy?

PB: Who even knows. Girls always go for assholes.

HL: Is there anything about this particular... asshole... which makes him different to the others who are doubtless swarming around an attractive young woman?

PB: If there is I don't see it. He's just another douchebag in a nice suit. Uh... no offence.

HL: Perhaps before our next session you could devote some time to finding out about this Roy and his life, in order to determine exactly how unworthy he is of her affections.

PB: Yeah... yeah! If I can find something on that asshole I can show her what he really is.

-

_While Paul's symptoms are not severe enough to meet the criteria for a true personality disorder, his particular tendency to obsess over any rival for his affections is concerning. It is possible that Paul's actions are actually a result of homoerotic tension between himself and this rival, Roy. This path will be explored further when a greater rapport has been developed with the client._


	5. Chapter 5

The milk had developed a faint trace of pink where it met the edges of the liver. He lifted it out of the liquid and set it on a thin layer of paper towel.

He had calculated the amounts required earlier, and now weighed them out precisely: thirty grams of Maldon sea salt; ten grams of Sucanat; five grams of Prague powder #1; and four grams of Madagascan pepper. Once the milk had drained away from the liver, he massaged each powder into the flesh in turn. At first the crystals crunched under the pressure of his hands, but soon they felt like silk. The time in the milk had left the liver itself smooth and soft as butter under his fingers, creamy as fat, tender and welcome to the whorls of his fingertips. 

The rising scent, the feel of the flesh around his fingers, was enough to make his mouth water. He set the liver on a mahogany board and sank the palms of his hands into it, kneading with long, smooth strokes. Under the warmth of his hands the liver was perfectly pliable, as compliant as its donor had been obstructive. 

All too soon, it had been pressed into a smooth plane, pale and gleaming under the warm kitchen lights, exactly one inch thick. He used his sharpest knife to ease one edge up from the board. 

With patient hands, dextrous from long practice, he rolled the organ in soft white raw muslin, and carried it as tenderly as a mother with a baby to the larder. The muslin tore obligingly as he slipped the meat hook through its folds - the hook had been so often-cleaned that it shone with a faint red patina - and for a slow moment the pre-pate swung like a suicide from the ceiling-beams.

When he turned back to the board, he saw a little smear of not-quite-foie, where the liver had stuck as he kneaded it. He harvested it with his index finger and popped it between his lips. There was after all little danger of it spoiling his appetite. His teeth scraped against his fingerprint as he closed his eyes, savouring the flavour.


	6. Chapter 6

LOCAL WOMAN DIES IN ACCIDENT 

Audrey Harding, 59, died last night after falling from the balcony of her home in Williamsburg. 

"It seems as though something frightened her, causing her to slip and fall," said Sheriff Watson of the Hampton Sheriff Office. "It was only a short fall but unfortunately she landed on a picket garden fence, which pierced several organs and caused her to bleed out." 

Mrs Harding is survived by her children, Karen (27) and Robert (31).


	7. Chapter 7

_Charlie presented with several deficits in self-care which were immediately obvious by the state of her hair and clothing. Her voice was monotonous and her affect blunted. Her speech jumped between topics but returned several times to the central theme, indicating erratic processes and unusual content in her thoughts. She appeared to be under the influence of several perceptual disturbances which were unlike those apparent in her previous episodes. It appears most likely that she has become medication-non compliant again._

-

CC: You were sent to me, Doctor. You have a calling.

HL: No, Charlie, you were sent to me. You have a condition.

CC: Our master works in mysterious ways, Doctor. Who's to say we weren't sent to each other? Do you dance?

HL: Do you?

CC: No, never. You should, though, with those feet. No, no, no. There's a golden calf in your eyes, Doctor, they're waiting for you.

HL: Sit down, please, Charlie, for the present. Tell me about your master.

CC: My master, your master, you know, you've just forgotten. We turn and turn. Hadad, Baal, Moloch, Dagon, Cronus, Carthage, cat, carpet, Colosseum—

HL: I am afraid I must interject that neither cat nor carpet are names of any representation of godheads, and neither Colosseum nor Carthage are related to the supernatural. Regurgitating the dictionary in an attempt to elevate your guide to greater status does not impress me. Tell me about your master.

CC: I get distracted, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Your name likes Carthage. I’m sorry. We’re all sorry. 

HL: Charlie. Your master.

CC: Yes yes yes we’ll get to him. I started first, you’ll have to catch up. You like questions, Doctor, tell me, what happens when you kill a body?

HL: Which body?

CC: Any of them. All of them, the stars have come right at last, the King in Yellow curtains down. 

HL: Why don’t you tell me more about these bodies. 

CC: I kill the body and he lets me keep them, they come with me. They tell me such things, Doctor. The first one whispers, she tells me all about Voltaire. You have a copy of _Candide_ , don’t you? It’s her favourite. 

HL: How many bodies have you killed?

CC: Uh. Umm. What day is it?

HL: Thursday.

CC: One on Monday, one on Tuesday, two on Wednesday, two today. I’ll find one more. Five tomorrow.

HL: The Fibonacci sequence.

CC: I don’t know what that is.

HL: Nothing to worry about. Can you tell me where you killed them, Charlie?

CC: A tower.

HL: And this tower, was it taller than this building?

CC: Yes, yes, it went up and up into the sky. It was all black and grey but I painted it yellow, he’ll be so pleased with us. I spread Lisa out like a little red angel.

HL: Mmhmm. And who else have you killed, Charlie? 

CC: Oh, Lisa, and then Thomas, and then Michael and Brianna, and then Samuel and Richard at the truck stop. 

HL: Which truck stop?

CC: The one near the airport. The waitress there was so clever, maybe I’ll go back for her. Her. Hair Harcourt harlot Hague half hall halt—

HL: I see. Would you mind waiting here for a moment, Charlie? You may read as much Voltaire as you like. 

\- 

_I believed it best to contact the authorities immediately upon Charlie informing me of her intention to kill again. While there is no way to know how reliable her account is at this time, William Graham of the FBI informs me that the names and locations gleaned from the initial interview correspond to several missing persons. Charlie has been hospitalised and is currently undergoing intensive treatment for her symptoms._


	8. Chapter 8

"What was she like?" 

Will Graham hides, as ever, behind his layers of flannel and corduroy. He has yet to lose the habit of treating the room as a crime scene.

"I can only tell you what she was like for me," Hannibal says peaceably. He has no need of haste; he can afford to wait. "After so many years, I find these visionary psychotics to be _exceedingly_ dull."

Will brushes his fingers over the spine of _Candide_. Charlie had left it on the table, open and face down. Hannibal had closed it immediately on his return to the room, but the spine was already marked.

Perhaps he was too hasty in giving Charlie over to Will. 

Will's pacing has slowed to something methodical. Hannibal considers the contents of his fridge. He has the makings of a reasonable goulash.

Will finally settles into a chair. His collar is rumpled. His right hand has flickers of ink around the dominant fingers and a trace of blood under the thumbnail. Hannibal finds himself intrigued by this veneer of innocence and vulnerability, now that he has seen what lies beneath it.  
"She was your patient for a long time," Will says. 

"And this is not the first time her delusions have led to violence," Hannibal replies. 

"What—"

"No."

Will leans back a little. His brow has furrowed. The faintest flush has come to his cheeks. Hannibal has begun to catalog the ways blood comes to Will's skin; this one is new. "No?"

Hannibal mirrors his posture. "Until she is found guilty in a court of law, Charlie remains my patient. Do not ask me to betray her confidentiality."

The way Will's shoulders relax is lovely to behold. The flush deepens a little; this is one Hannibal has seen before. 

"I... sorry."

"There is nothing to apologise for," Hannibal says magnanimously. "As my office appears to have become a crime scene, I have cancelled today's appointments. Stay for dinner."

Perhaps the most charming of Will's multitude of charming characteristics is how beautifully obedient he is capable of being, even in his moments of emotionally-driven intransigence. If so, it is closely followed by his blindness to this quality. 

-

Hannibal considers, briefly, a world in which Will appreciates all that he does for him. Considers being able to say, _Tonight's dish is care of one Mister Parker. One can only hope is sweeter in death than he was in life_. Considers placing his hands on Will's hyoid bone and pressing down. Considers that Will would allow this.

Such thoughts are, sadly, wasted for now.

He sets the dish in front of Will. "Pork goulash."

Will ducks his head. Hannibal breathes in the scent of his hair before he moves around to his seat. He takes a moment to appreciate the scent of the meal, too; pork in a creamy sauce, flavoured lightly with paprika, served with chat potatoes.

Hannibal remembers eating a simpler type of goulash as a child. 

It hadn't been pork then, either.

They eat in silence for a few minutes, until Will's fork hits his plate with a clank. Hannibal looks up mildly.

"I know you have to protect her confidentiality—"

"As I do yours," Hannibal says mildly. 

Will flushes—embarrassment again—but presses on. "Just—what did you mean, when you said she'd been violent before?"

"She committed no crime, or I would have reported her then." Will's shoulders edge higher and higher; Hannibal takes pity. "If you want further information I'm afraid you will need a subpoena."

Will relaxes again. Hannibal hides his smile in a bite of goulash.

Hannibal allows Will a little more time to truly savour the dish before he strikes. "How are your dreams?"

To his credit, Will has finally learned to see a question coming. This time there is a soft chime instead of a clank. His struggle with expression writes itself in the lines around his eyes and mouth; Hannibal drinks it in. 

"Intense," Will says at last. "I keep seeing the stag."

"And do you still dream of killing?"

The silence stretches out for a moment. Will's mouth twists beautifully when he answers. "Yes."

Hannibal tilts his head slightly. "There are some in my profession who would say that these dreams are your subconscious trying to make itself known to you." Will actually stops breathing for a moment. Fascinating. "Nonsense, of course."

Will’s laugh is more a relieved exhale than a sound of true mirth. "I thought you were a psychodynamic therapist."

"I am. Many aspects of psychodynamic theory have a strong evidence base. Dream interpretation, however, is not one of them."

"Oh good. I was worried I was subconsciously a serial killer."

Hannibal lets Will see the smile this time. "Even if you are, Will, I assure you, you will not learn of it through _dreams_."

They both laugh, albeit for very different reasons.


	9. Chapter 9

DOUBLE HOMICIDE IN VIRGINIA BEACH

A man has been arrested and charged with the murder of a local couple, police reported earlier today. 

Paul Baker, 31, was arrested at the victims' home in Northwest early this morning after concerned neighbors reported a domestic disturbance.

A female victim was pronounced dead at the scene. A male victim who is believed to be her partner died en route to hospital. Both victims suffered multiple stab wounds. A police spokesperson stated that there was ‘very little doubt’ as to the identity of the killer. 

Police are still attempting to reach the victims’ next of kin.


	10. Chapter 10

_Emily still refuses to discuss whether her overdose was accidental or intentional. The majority of her symptoms have cleared, although she is still experiencing minor dyskinesia, particularly in her left arm. Her speech is coherent but rapid. Thought processes are normal, but content revolves around violence and death, which is concerning considering her recent history. No perceptual disturbances have been detected._

-

HL: You keep coming back to death.

ES: I guess it's on my mind lately.

HL: Why do you think that is?

ES: Because the last six months have been nothing but sunshine and daisies.

HL: Do you have thoughts of killing?

ES: Don't sugar coat it or anything, Jesus.

HL: Perhaps we should discuss the way you use sarcasm as a defence mechanism.

ES: Sounds great!

-

 _While she is aware of her own cognitive distortions, Emily regards herself as powerless to control or counteract them. She becomes extremely distressed when attempts to directly confront these distortions are made. Adopting a Rogerian approach such as motivational interviewing would perhaps be more effective._

-

ES: It’s been pretty constant for the past year. Maybe more, I don’t know.

HL: Have these thoughts intruded on your life?

ES: God, no, not at all. Not even slightly. Unless you count the time I wound up in hospital getting shot full of naloxone. 

HL: Who do you think about when you think of killing?

ES: People who deserve it.

HL: The way you say that makes me think you mean yourself.

ES: [inaudible]

HL: I’m sorry?

ES: No, it was dumb. Just, if I'm going to kill, even just in my head, it may as well be someone who deserves it.

HL: What makes you think you deserve death?

ES: What makes you think I deserve life?

-

_Emily's MCMI-3 score was elevated on anxiety, depression, dysthymia, drug abuse, and trauma. She also scored highly on debasement, but not on any other validity scale, indicating that she generally responded honestly; the debasement score may indicate negative self-concept consistent with depression. I am baffled by her previous diagnosis of conduct disorder, as she clearly does not meet the criteria under either the DSM-IV-TR or the ICD-10. I am hesitant to diagnose any other disorder, as her current presentation may be a reasonable response to the events indicated in the attached police and medical reports._

_Her current interpersonal style, however, is dysfunctional in the extreme._

-

HL: It seems to me that you have very strong ideals of fairness, of what people deserve.

ES: I guess.

HL: These ideals don't match up to reality very well, do they?

ES: Wow, those fancy degrees were really worth every penny.

HL: This anger, this tension in yourself, is coming from the places where your ideals and your reality conflict. So you have two choices now. Change the ideals, or change the reality.

ES: Golly, I wonder what the guy who specialises in mental shit recommends.

HL: Now, now. You may yet be surprised.


End file.
